


Last Night's Clothes and Tomorrow's Dreams

by pyrchance



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Arranged Marriage, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Beta/Omega, Dubious Consent, Have Yourself a Merry Little Fic Exchange, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Regency Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-01-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:47:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28471119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pyrchance/pseuds/pyrchance
Summary: Pete has spent years waited for this moment. This is to be his social season. His time to time to finally take his place among the glittering eligible omegas waiting to catch their match.A beta like Patrick isn't even supposed to be there, much less steal his entire future away.
Relationships: Patrick Stump/Pete Wentz
Comments: 19
Kudos: 35
Collections: Have Yourself A Merry Little Fic Exchange





	Last Night's Clothes and Tomorrow's Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PadawanRyan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PadawanRyan/gifts).



> Written for the "Have Yourself a Merry Little Fic Exchange." The prompt was arranged marriage.
> 
> Oh, also, the beginning was definitely inspired by episode one of Bridgerton. Enjoy!

_SUMMER_

The queen declares him perfect with a kiss on his forehead and raises him from his knees.

When Pete turns around to face the assembly he knows he’s smiling too wide. He should demure properly, duck his head and try to hide the burning delight in his face, but he can’t quite manage it. He’s _perfect_. The queen herself said so.

Pete catches sight of his mother and father’s proud smiles, of his little sister beaming from the gathered onlookers, of the craning envious stares of the other families, and can’t help but feel like he’s already won it all.

He’s waited years for his moment. This is to be _his_ social season. Finally, the time has come for him to take his place among the glittering eligible omegas waiting to catch their match.

The gossip rags will kiss him to bed gently that night, comparing his smile to the glittering diamonds around his neck and spreading the queen’s approval for all the city to know.

The slap, when it comes, will strike without warning.

Pete loves parties and dancing and music. His mother presses jewels to his throat before they leave, smooths the soft velvet of his jacket until the deep green gleams, while his father clasps the back of his neck to keep Pete from vibrating out of his carriage seat. He has both of them by his side as he steps down from the transport and is led into the flurry of his first true debut ball. For a moment, a wave of stillness rolls across the hall as all eyes turn to him, the shining promise of the social season.

Pete sticks to his father like a shadow, albeit one stretched long by the sun. His dance card is full by the time they’ve made a single lap around the party as alphas old and young, familiar and foreign, approach and smile. Pete preens under the attention, even more so when his father squeezes his shoulder in approval and gives him off to the first suitor waiting on the dance floor.

Pete loves dancing. It’s one of the few lessons he’s loved right from the start, even when he was a dirty little thing that would rather dig in the mud outside or scale the manor walls than attend his classes. Of course that sort of nonsense stopped once he was old enough to understand what it meant to be the eldest son of Lord Wentz, and an omega heir at that. Pete’s match would be the gateway for his siblings to follow. His pride and shame was his family’s. It was a heavy pressure, but dancing was light.

So he dances and laughs, even when his partners aren’t so skilled, tripping over their feet when he tips his neck back and basks in the excitement of it all. He’s hot when the first round of songs are done.

As he steps off the dance floor he can’t immediately spot his father or mother in the crowd. He’s not unmoored by it. There are plenty of familiar, friendly faces at the party. Pete heads to the table for a glass to cool his throat, but the drinks are swarmed. Rather than push through them he spots an open door to the gardens and glances around again, searching for his parents. He makes up his mind when he can’t find them. He’ll only step outside for a moment.

It’s cooler by far as he walks down the steps to the gravel paths of the garden, but still humid the way summer nights always are. Pete lifts the velvet jacket from his chest to feel a brush of fresh air on his skin. It’s good, really good, and Pete glances back towards the glowing, open doors of the party before stepping a few feet further into the gardens, unbuttoning his jacket as he takes a moment of privacy behind a hedge to cool down.

The night air is intoxicating. It lingers with the scent of honeysuckle. He fans his jacket until the breeze sinks into the sweat hidden in the layers beneath.

A crunch of gravel jars him suddenly from his bliss. Pete opens his eyes, hyperaware and cursing himself as he fumbles to button his jacket back closed. He’s heart jumps when he notices that he’s drifted a bit farther from the doors than anticipated, far too close to the wide, shadowed, forbidden garden lanes where many a reputation has been ruined.

“No,” Pete whispers as the crunching gravel continues to approach. “No no no. Please no.”

He ducks his head and scurries away from the sound, around another hedge. He runs right into someone coming around the other side. Pete sees the startled expression flash over the stranger’s face in the moment before he tumbles to the ground, too shocked to keep his balance. Sharp pebbles dig into his hands and knees as he catches himself. Pete sucks in a startled breath as something in his pristine trousers gives.

“Oh! I’m so sorry. I wasn’t expecting to run into anyone out here.”

Strange hands descend into Pete’s vision. He jerks back, chin jutting up as his eyes jump to the stranger’s face. He’s no one Pete knows— short, heavy, and adorned with wide red sideburns under an unseasonal cap. He looks more like a cook than a suitor, which makes perfect sense when Pete lifts his nose and realizes there’s no scent of an alpha on him. The stranger is a beta, perhaps one of the bold upstarts attempting to snag one of the more unfortunate omegas if his fine yellow jacket says anything. The beta peers down at him with worried eyes.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Pete finally realizes he is still on his hands and knees in front of a stranger man in the gardens. He all but lurches to his feet, grace forgotten. “I— No. I apologize. I’m fine,” he says, speaking far too quickly, revealing his panic. He tries to suck in a steadying breath but it catches when a burst of applause rings out from the open ball doors just a little ways away. Had anyone seen…?

“Are you sure you’re okay?” the beta inquires, stepping closer and lifting a hand as if to take Pete’s arm. “You fell hard.”

Pete steps back from the arm and speaks sharply, “I said I’m fine.”

The beta’s hand wavers in the air for a moment, before dropping. He wipes his palm against his thigh as his open smile dims. Pete feels it when the beta’s eyes trail down his form, before jumping away. The beta’s face reddens. “You’ve uh… your jacket, I mean.”

With a mortified gasp, Pete glances down. His jacket hangs open still, the white shirt beneath clinging to his skin with sweat. It’s obscene.

“Fuck,” Pete bites out, and then freezes slowly to find the beta staring pointedly away from him, cheeks ruddy red. “I— Ignore that please. I didn’t mean…”

The beta’s eyes flicker to him and away again. He shifts, hands clasped behind his back like a schoolboy. “Are you sure you’re alright? You seem…upset.”

Pete hurriedly fixes his buttons and curls his arms around his stomach. His face burns so bright it feels like the night air crackles as it contacts his skin. “I’m sorry. I was just getting a bit of air. I wasn’t… I know what it looks like, but believe me I wasn’t…” He can’t even force the words out.

“You’re Peter Wentz, aren’t you?” the beta interrupts.

Pete ducks his head. “Pete.”

“Right, um.” The beta’s eyes light up with interest— a suitor’s interest. Pete’s eyes dance from the beta to the open doors. To his horror the steps aren’t empty. A couple stands outside in perfect eyesight of them. Pete doesn’t need to see more to know that they’re watching.

“I read about you in the paper,” the beta continues, speaking now with a growing smile. “I admit I didn’t expect to run into. You made quite an impact.Shouldn’t you be inside dancing? ”

“Excuse me,” Pete says, with another nervous glance at the couple. “I should find my father. I’m not meant to be alone.”

“Oh!” The beta has the decency to look abashed. “Right. Of course. Do you— I could escort you inside?”

“That’s not necessary” Pete says, taking several tiny, swift steps backward. “I’m sorry. I need to go.”

He turns before he can see what his rudeness has reaped on the beta’s face. He hurries, almost running, back up the steps, only managing to slow when he sees clearly the eyes of the party on him as he comes in the door. The couple on the steps whisper as he passes, mouths wide and delighted with scandal.

Pete spies his father standing with his neck craned looking for him further inside. Pete hasn’t even reached him before he sees the eyes beginning to turn towards him, a different gleam in their eyes than the admiration when he’d first arrived.

“We need to go,” Pete hisses when he finally reaches his father.

His father takes Pete’s arm and pulls him in close. “Where were you? What happened?”

Pete feels the moment the beta steps inside the party. There’s an audible murmur that runs through the crowd. Pete can’t help himself. He turns and finds himself watching as the beta walks back into the ballroom, sweaty and red in the face in all the worst possible ways.

“Pete?”

Pete drops his eyes. He sees the dirt on his knees and the pebbles still pressed into the scrapes on his palms. His stomach disappears down beneath the floor.

“I messed up, Dad,” Pete whispers. Across the hall, the red-haired beta finds him with a look of friendly recognition. His intent is clear as he takes two eager steps closer. Pete turns as his father puts a hand on the back of his neck. Pete is ushered away.

By morning, the gossips have chewed off their tongues. Pete is still awake with his old friend insomnia when the kitchen boy brings the papers in from the square, slinking down and getting a copy before his mother can try to hide it from him.

The words are cruel and blatant _A diamond of the roughest sorts_ , they call him, _fool’s gold_ and worst. The papers hold back from calling him a ruined man, but only just. The implication is there anyway.

Pete’s hands shake when he’s finally dressed and sat in the parlor awaiting to take callers. His mother has been preparing for the anticipated flood of suitors for weeks, calling on the bakery and the cooks to make the finest little dishes and teas. By midday the delicate tarts the maid had laid out that morning have been fetched back to the kitchen, untouched. His siblings have been excused from sitting with him as the hours trickle by without excitement. Pete sits as well as he can alone on his armchair with his hands in his lap, unable to look up as his mother frets and paces.

“It was a mistake,” she says when she catches sight of his face and pets his hair. “You’re an honest boy. They know you. They know us. Your suitors will come.”

Pete sinks down low in his chair and says nothing at all.

On the the fifth day without a caller Pete’s mother and father excuse themselves from the parlor leaving Pete alone to sit in his misery. He slinks to the door to eavesdrop more out of morbid curiosity than true desire to know. His father has declined the invitation to the next ball.

“— it’s drawing things out now. Why humiliate him further?”

“Oh, but you know Pete. He’s a sensitive sort. He has his heart set on marry for love.”

“And it was foolish to ever encourage that in him. He’s not a child, Dale. It’s been a long time since he’s had to be reminded of his duties.”

“But…a beta? Truly?”

“We should be thankful if the man even replies. The papers make it sound like we should put bars on his windows. At this rate, Pete will be lucky to be matched at all.”

“But—“

“I’m sorry. I truly am, but my mind is made up. I’ll send out the inquiry tonight.”

Pete sucks in his breath and scurries back to his seat shortly before the door opens back up. His mother gives him a weak smile as she steps in, but that’s all. Pete can’t find it inside himself to return it.

Pete sits up on his bed that night, sinking into the sensation of his hands in the cool sheets.

He gets up and walks himself to his wardrobe, opens the doors and digs until he finds the smooth pale trousers ruined with the tiny tears and dirt stains in the knees.

There’s no fire in the hearth this far into summer. Pete strips the pants into thin, fraying pieces he can feed into his candle one at a time, holding tight until the smell of burning fabric and seared fingers fills his room.

The destruction soothes nothing of the churning inside him. Pete sweeps away the ashes, and goes back to bed, sleepless.

The beta arrives the following day. Pete knows it before the man ever shows up by the way his mother bustles into his room and insists on helping him get dressed herself, slicking his bangs out of his eyes and draping him in clean ivory silk.

When his siblings troupe into the parlor they’ve been given a similar working over. They sit, pretty as dolls with ribbons in their hair, on a sofa just a little space away, eyeing the sugared lemon bars set out with more interest than they pay to the proceedings of the parlor.

His mother and father are there as well. His mother perches next to him on the seat holding his hands while his father paces near the window. He’s the one that quietly announces, “He’s here,” as an unfamiliar carriage pulls up to their door.

The beta walks in wearing the same yellow jacket Pete remembers from the party. Pete is embarrassed to recognize it, but stands as gracefully as he can when the company arrives.

“Mr. Patrick Stump,” the butler announces as the beta comes walking tentatively through the double doors. It’s only then that Pete realizes he hadn’t even caught the name of the beta who had helped to ruin him so thoroughly. It hadn’t even made the papers.

The beta pulls the cap from his head and worries it in his hands, revealing thinning red hair beneath. Pete bites his tongue and breathes through his nose steadily as his mother grips his hand.

“Welcome sir,” his father says with a confidence only an alpha could wield. “We’re glad to have you here. Would you like to sit?”

It’s his mother that leads Stump to the seat across from Pete, a polite but strained smile on her face. “May I take your hat?” she asks. The beta’s fingers cling white the brim of it.

“Oh, uh, no. Thank you.” Stump keeps his hat tucked close on lap, upper lip noticeably sweaty and unbearably soft— nothing like the alpha of Pete’s dreams. His eyes dart around the room, landing on nothing. “I don’t mean to stay long.”

Pete watches his mother stiffen at the words. Pete’s own spine straightens at the bluntness, but it’s his father’s countenance that grows dark. Shamed as Pete has made them, his father isn’t one to take an insult gracefully.

“I just wanted to apologize,” Stump goes on, still worrying the hat in his hands. His eyes have difficulty settling, but do eventually flicker up to Pete before bouncing away. “I read what the papers wrote about the party. I would like to set the record straight, if possible.”

Pete’s eyes widen. He glances back at this father, but his father’s face gives little away. He stares down the beta who, with a shuddering breath, attempts to meet his father’s eyes.

“Lord Wentz, your son did nothing wrong. I bumped into him in the garden. I imagine he was getting a bit of air from the dance. That’s all. He was heading back inside to find you the moment it happened.”

Behind Pete, his father shifts and curls a hand over Pete’s shoulder. “I thank you for your forthright-fullness, sir, but it’s not needed. I have never had doubt of my son’s honesty.”

The beta’s shoulders slump in relief. “Oh. Oh thank god for that.” He lifts his head up again, a bit more confidently this time, and aims a shy smile at Pete. “I was worried I had messed it all up. These parties aren’t really my scene. I’m a beta, you know? I wasn’t expecting everyone to be so…intense.”

Pete and his mother both blink, smiles frozen at the crude words. It’s simply not done to talk openly about one’s dynamic. Even children know better. His mother recovers before him, managing to relax her expression into something less of a grimace.

“I’m afraid we haven’t heard much about you,” she rebukes lightly. “Do you have family in the area?”

“Not really,” Stump says, waving a hand vaguely. “A friend of mine invited to stay for the part of the summer. Joe Trohman? Do you know him? I’m afraid I’m stuck in the city most of the time and can’t get away.”

Something in all three of the Wentzes eases sound of a the familiar name. The Trohman are of good stock, not possessing near the Wentz fortune but titled at least. Pete has seen the young Lord Trohman following after him with puppy eyes, still a year shy from entering the social circuit himself. He’s a beta too, Pete remembers vaguely. He hadn’t paid him all that much mind.

“You live in the city?”

Pete’s surprised to hear himself ask the question. He is curious, he’s supposes. He recalls a vague dream of his youth of wanting to run away to the city and make a name for himself as a poet. In truth, short trips to the beach a few hours ride away are as far as he’s gone from home.

“Mostly,” returns Stump. He’s smiling slightly, seeming surprised but pleased by Pete’s inquiry. No doubt under the veneer of civility Stump is salivating at his chance to sit as a suitor for an omega like Pete. He doesn’t miss what a bargain he’ll get. “I summer with my mother in the country sometimes, but work keeps me busy. I haven’t been able to get away until now.”

“You work?” Pete asks, straightened up now. Perhaps the beta is a traveling businessman or a barrister. Someone too busy to stay at home and who will leave the household up to Pete.

Stump snorts. For the first time, something other than nerves or relief spreads over his face. For a moment, his expression is almost offended. “Yes, I work. I teach at the university, in fact. Music theory and composition. They usually ask me to stay on to supervise the summer concerts.”

A professor. Pete feels his cheeks burn even as he keeps his smile locked in place. A professor who works in the city and owns only one fine coat.

Pete knows he should say something more, that it’s his job to clean up his own mess, but he can’t make the words come. After a too long pause, his mother cuts in smoothly, telling Stump about Pete’s own uninspired forays into piano, spinning them so sweetly Stump’s ire fades and he seems ready to ask Pete to play here and now.

Thankfully, it doesn’t quite come to that. “You’ll have to come again for dinner,” his mother insists as the beta leans forward, apparently enraptured in the conversation over Pete’s illusionary piano skills.

“Oh,” says Stump, eager smile dipping and sliding behind something like nerves again. His eyes jump to Pete, before leaping off, as though Pete were a hot piece of coal he didn’t dare to handle. “You’d like me to visit again?”

There’s something in Stump’s voice that makes Pete almost think the question is directed at him. Before he can puzzle it out further, his father steps in, clasping Stump by the hand and shaking on it. “Really. We insist on it.”

Pete pushes back the sickness in his throat and bows his head as a pretty, enamored omega ought. “If you please, sir.”

_FALL_

The wedding is a reserved affair.

Pete knows that his family is in repair mode at the moment, trying to protect the future matches of his younger siblings, but it hurts even so to walk down the aisle to half-full pews and a husband that looks at him in only stolen glances.

Pete kneels before the alter as is traditional and prays that the way he hangs his head seems modest instead of bleak. The beta had to be instructed on where and how to purchase a collar for the occasion. The black leather Stump closes around Pete’s throat is plain and tightened too loose. There may be silver in the buckles, but it does little to shine. It feels as though all of the light has been sucked out of him.

Pete doesn’t flinch when his new husband pulls him to his feet and delivers the wedding kiss, but only because he’s barely there at all. Stump’s lips are soft and hesitant and the whole thing only last a second before Stump pulls away. Pete’s both disappointed and grateful. He’d hoped there might be _some_ buried confidence in his new husband somewhere, but the beta remains as dull and nervous as ever even as the ceremony ends and Pete is officially his.

Pete lets Stump lead him from the church by the hand, the traditional leash apparently forgotten or too expensive. They climb into his family’s carriage and sit stiffly on opposite sides as the driver rolled them away.

Pete’s things and dowery have already been sent weeks ahead to the city. Pete has nothing but himself and the new collar to fidget with, which he does so as the carriage bares him out of the only home he’s ever had.

There are few onlookers to throw flowers and well-wishes as they depart and half of those who are present are only there to glimpse the fallen diamond. Over the summer months the papers continued to have their way with him, but while his utter disappearance from the social scene has been well speculated on, the more days that passed after the disastrous party the more the pages had been taken up by other gossip. Pete is a cautionary but stale story. He can only hope that with enough time his family might begin to recover their reputation.

“Have you ever been to the city before?”

Stump’s question drags Pete’s reluctant gaze away from the windows and his last sight of home. His husband has found a new jacket at last, but it is black and simple. He pulled his cap back on the moment they entered the carriage.

“No, sir.”

They’ve never been entirely alone before and the air is thick and strained between them. Stump makes a face. “You don’t need to call me that, Pete,” he says, taking hold of Pete’s given name with only a slight quaver. “We’re married now. You can relax.”

Pete has never felt pulled more taut than in this moment. He lets none of that hang on his features. “Yes. Of course, Patrick.”

His husband sighs again. As always, his pale face is stained a ruddy red. “I think you’ll like the city. Everything is a bit faster. Everyone a bit less strict. Your father was telling me you were a bit rambunctious as a child. There is certainly plenty to get excited over at the university.”

Patrick laughs at his own words, as though they were a joke and not a strong hint from his father that Pete needs a firm hand. As honest as his father may have believed him to be, Pete has spent more time on his knees, dropped down to think about his actions, this past summer than he has since he was an unruly fourteen-year-old. Had his father been anyone else, Pete would have been beaten black and blue.

“I’ve reformed,” Pete says and watches the attempt at joviality drain from his husband’s face.

“Oh, well, I’m sure we’ll find you something to do.”

Pete lets his gaze drift back toward the window, but the town and all his family has already passed away.

“As you say, husband.”

The townhouse is tall and narrow and smaller than even the poorest Lord’s country estate. It’s a red brick building just off the university’s center which Patrick points out as they drive in. A single man steps out as their carriage arrives, an exceedingly tall alpha who opens their door for them and laughs as Patrick holds out his hand for Pete to step out.

“I had to see it with my own eyes. Get over here, Stump, you fox you. I can’t believe you did it!”

Patrick frowns in embarrassment and quickly lets go of Pete’s hand once he’s on the ground. “Not now, Gabe.”

“No really. How on earth did you manage to swing a pretty little thing like that?” the alpha says, leering closer to Pete, addressing him directly. Everyone line of him reads amusement. “Are you sure you’re here of your own free will?”

They’re standing on the street having this conversation. It’s past dusk and few are out, but the driver belongs to Pete’s family and is openly scowling at the display. Pete waits for his husband to do anything—to grow mad, take Pete’s hand, push Pete behind him, _anything_ —but the only thing that happens is a deepening of the red on Patrick’s cheeks and a frown.

“I’m not talking about this with you. Thank you for opening the house for me. I’ll speak with you in the morning.”

Gabe’s answering wink is salacious. “Uh huh. I know when I’m not needed. I’ll call on you late tomorrow morning then. I’m sure you’ll be quite busy tonight.”

The alpha laughs as he ambles away, having dragged Pete’s modesty clear through the mud.

“Sir,” the driver says lowly, holding the reigns white knuckled. “I can bring you back to your family. Are you sure that you—“

“It’s fine,” says Pete quickly, forcing a calm smile onto his face. “Just a little bit of wedding night teasing. You’re free to go home now. Give my love to my parents.” He ignores the many open windows on the street and all the people who have no doubt heard. It’s harder to ignore the way his husband is blushing a scant few feet away, useless.

The driver is of loyal stock and looks stubborn for a moment before cracking the reigns and pulling away. Pete infuses his back with iron as he turns around, keeping his eyes up and on the door of his new home if only to keep from glaring at his husband.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says, wringing his hands. “Gabe doesn’t have manners, but he’s a good friend. He doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Of course not,” Pete says stiffly. He hears Patrick shift, but no further apology comes.

“Right. Um, this way.”

Pete is led up the steps to the townhouse and into a small, if polished, entryway. The walls are yellow and warm, accenting the dark wood floors and bannisters. The entire entryhall could fit into Pete’s bedroom back home.

Patrick tries smiling hopefully. “I don’t keep a live-in staff, but the cook should have prepared something if you’re hungry. We could eat.”

“Are you hungry?” Pete asks.

“Oh, well. Not really actually. Are you?”

“If it’s all the same to you, husband,” returns Pete, unable to keep the exhaustion from his voice, “I’d rather just finish the night.”

Even Patrick’s ears pink now. He drops his gaze from Pete’s as he always does, rubbing his palms on his thighs. “Right. Right.”

Pete waits. Then he stares in dismay when several seconds pass and nothing else happens. Is the beta so incompetent even now?

“I would like to lay down,” Pete says, dropping as heavy a hint has he can. “You could show me to your bed?”

Patrick jumps. “Right!” His hands jerk out as if to take Pete’s but he gives up the attempt in the last moment, instead giving a jerky nod of his head. “It’s upstairs. This way.”

Pete can’t escape the shiver of anticipation that strikes him as he follows the beta up the stairs. The room he’s led into is larger than the rest, but still small. The bed is decidedly not.

Pete looks around the floor for a kneeling cushion, but of course there isn’t one. What use would a beta have for it? He keeps the protests from his face as he folds himself to his knees on the wood floor instead, keeping his head bowed and listened as Patrick walks several steps further into the room before pausing. There’s an intake of breath when Patrick must see him, which soothes something in Pete’s chest even as his heart beats wildly. At least he is desired.

“You, ah— You like it on your knees?”

Pete doesn’t let the crude words burn him. He’s already bought and paid for. He won’t shame his family any further by not performing his new duties.

“Unless you have somewhere you’d rather like me,” he returns and manages to keep the quiver of nerves from his voice. His mother may have told him the mechanics of this, but everything about kneeling for a man that’s not his father is brand new.

“No, um. No that’s fine.”

There’s a shuffled of hesitant feet closer to him and then shoes appear in his vision. Under the safety of his long bangs, Pete closes his eyes as his husband touches him— fingers gingerly reaching for his hair and running through it. There are callouses there Pete wasn’t expecting, but nothing is firm in the beta’s grip. Pete’s given no direction, not even a hint, as Patrick strokes a slightly clammy hand down and cups his face.

Pete takes a steadying breath and opens his eyes. He’s face is level with the seam of Patrick’s trousers and it isn’t hard to see the slight bulge there. His husband is growing hard, at least, which is good. Pete reminds himself that it’s good as he slowly reaches for the ties of his pants and hides the trembling of his fingers.

“Oh,” says Patrick in small voice when Pete’s grasps him. The hands tighten momentarily in his hair, before growing limp again. Pete hesitates with the mixed signals. “Oh, Pete.”

It’s not really that much different than touching himself. Patrick and he are of a similar size. He supposes he doesn’t even need to worry about a knot with a beta like his husband. He keeps his eyes on his work as he strokes Patrick to fullness, pausing when they get there to glance briefly at Patrick’s face.

The beta’s eyes are down and locked on him. His mouth hangs opened, surprised. He strokes down the back of Pete’s head but doesn’t pull him forward or grip his hair. If anything, his gaze seems to be pleading, watching Pete with dark, blown pupils. The expression sends hives under Pete’s skin and he turns away.

He knows what Patrick wants, even if he’s asking for it in all the wrong ways. Pete’s overheard enough of the gossip to know what comes next.

He shifts on his knees and draws nearer to his husband’s cock, nose wrinkling at the salty-sweat smell. There’s another little gasp as Pete licks the tip of it, which is warm and softer than he imagined. For a moment, Patrick’s hands tighten in his hair again and _almost_ tug. Pete reads into the nudging as best as he’s able, opening his mouth and taking Patrick’s cock on this tongue, hollowing his cheeks. The pressure disappears in the next moment leaving him floundering.

He doesn’t know if he’s doing it correctly, but he tries to follow the soft noises Patrick makes above him for approval. It isn’t long until Patrick’s thighs begin to shake. Pete anticipates the oncoming climax and braces himself as best as he’s able, only for Patrick’s hand and cock suddenly disappear. He doesn’t understand until he opens his eyes and sees Patrick a step back from him, holding himself in his hand and spilling onto the floor.

“Sorry,” says Patrick in an out of breath voice. “I should have warned you. I don’t know if you… you know.”

Pete sits back on his haunches and tries not to let his crushing uncertainty show on his face. His eyes flicker from the spilled seed on the floor to Patrick’s face, wondering if he’s meant to lick it up. The dirtiest of rumors told stories like that. He doesn’t know. He can’t make sense of anything Patrick is trying to tell him.

“You didn’t have to pull away,” he finally settles on saying, voice coming out hoarse and low.

“Oh,” says Patrick again, blinking. Pete meets his eyes as best he’s able and Patrick’s gaze travels down him. Finally something more determined enters his expression. “Come here.”

Pete rises to his feet and takes a step closer. Patrick’s hands come up to his face again, drawing him in for a kiss. His lips are wet this time, matching Pete’s, and the kiss is hot. Pete can feel Patrick’s warm exhales on his face still slightly labored from his orgasm. He startles when Patrick’s tongue runs against his lips but remembers to open his mouth in the next moment. Patrick’s tongue darts in as Pete sucks in a breath through his nose and keeps still. Patrick’s tongue pushes deeper and licks into Pete’s mouth, his hands—even the messy one—coming up to bury back in Pete’s hair.

When Patrick breaks the kiss it’s only to run wet lips down Pete’s jaw and under his chin. Pete tilts his head back to bare his neck and holds very still. The kisses tease at something deep and desperate just there under Pete’s skin. He waits for the claiming bite, tensing when he feels Patrick’s hands run over the collar around his neck and loosen it. He sighs deeper when the collar is undone and Patrick’s lips land on the bare skin where his neck and shoulder meet.

“There,” he whispers and holds his breath when Patrick seems to listen, focusing his attention to that one spot. Pete squirms for the first time, feeling his own arousal slowly bloom in anticipation.

“You want this?” Patrick asks as one of his hands travels down and cups where Pete is growing hard.

“Please,” Pete begs as Patrick’s teeth finally scrape his neck. He holds his breath as Patrick reaches into his pants and takes out his cock, not caring so much for the hand on him as he tilts his head further and waits for the bite.

Patrick keeps him waiting. His hand moves slowly on Patrick’s cock, a grip so light it has Pete twisting for more friction. It doesn’t matter when Patrick sucks on that spot on his neck, making his knees weak and a moan roll from his throat.

“Come on, Pete,” Patrick urges. “Let me see you.”

It’s all the direction Pete needs. His hips snap up once, twice, and then he’s coming with a groan into Patrick’s hand. At the same moment, Patrick’s lips leave his neck to kiss his mouth, never delivering on the promised bite.

Pete feels the refusal of it like a blow. It sours the orgasm still running through him, hollowing out a hole in his stomach. Patrick wraps his arms around Pete as he sags, not totally understanding that it’s already over. He blinks and spies the bed over Patrick’s shoulder. They hadn’t even made it that far.

His neck is cold where Patrick’s spit dries in the night air. Apart from that, he feels nothing at all there. No claiming bite to align himself to, not even a collar or a hand around his neck.

He pulls back from Patrick’s embrace as his adrenaline fades and his knees stiffen up. Eyes onthe floor, he misses the fond look Patrick gives him even as hands card through and disappear from his hair.

“Thank you,” Patrick says. “That was…” He shakes his head as if absent from words.

Pete bites back his own. They are bubbling up in him in a way that makes him long for ink and paper. He knows better than to let them spill. Somehow he’s already failed to please his husband.

“I’m sorry,” Pete whispers, eyes on the floor. “I think I’m tired tonight. I can do better tomorrow. Perhaps I join you in bed?”

Until this summer, Pete has never been a disappointing omega. He has followed his father and mother’s instructions dutifully, accepted their lessons and corrections even when his hands itched and his feet couldn’t sit still and his whole throat seemed crammed with words. His maturity had been full of growing pains, but he’d bared them. He wasn’t supposed to be like this anymore.

He doesn’t let himself cry as Patrick allows him into the bed, even has Patrick’s breathing grows deep and slow as he curls around Pete’s back and falls to sleep. He’s heard of omegas displeasing their matches before. Sometimes amusing antidotes of so-and-so not being able to sit still at church with the spanking they’d received for spoiling a dinner party or mouthing off at guests. Sometimes more serious stories of omegas who were disloyal or dishonest, returned to their family homes in disgrace, barely able to talk or walk.

He’s never heard of an omega being refused a mating bite. Not on their wedding night. Not something as simple and declarative as that.

Pete runs through their interactions like he’s counting sand. Had he misread Patrick’s desires? He’s cues had been so vague. Had he been too impudent, not accepting dinner? Had something of his reservations, his distaste, shown on his face when he’d taken Patrick in his mouth?

Patrick’s bed is warm, but Pete shakes under the arm lying over him. Not even one day married and he is already failing at it.

He wonders, not for the first time, how wrong the queen could have been about him. Every day he learns just how far from perfect—from even being _good_ —he is.

_WINTER_

Pete comes to know the cook and the maid well, both of whom are often his only company throughout the day while Patrick is away at the university.

Pete learns shortly that his husband works long hours, staying out late at night and sleeping deep into the morning until Pete learns to just take his breakfasts and dinners alone. They meet most often at midday, when Patrick finally gets up and prepares for work and Pete tries to make himself useful by laying out his clothes and papers and things. Patrick’s grown accustom to pecking at Pete’s lips before he goes, always on the front steps of the townhouse so the passerby's can see. Pete bares the indignantly of being outside with no bite and no collar for the moments he must, but otherwise rarely leaves the house.

They meet also late at night when Patrick arrives home, long after the servants have gone for the night and the house has fallen still. For the first few weeks at least, Patrick had kissed him deeply then and spoken with bright eyes of his music and his most promising students, gleaming with something that is almost confidence before he takes Pete’s offered mouth or hands to bed.

As the months trickle by however, Patrick’s enthusiasm dims. He speaks less when Pete warms and lays out his dinner on the table; eventually fading from long, winding stories to soft, near rote inquiries about Pete’s day.

Pete doesn’t know what to tell him. His day is fine. It always is, even when it isn’t. Never mind that Pete feels like he’s going to split out of his skin if he stays a moment longer in this house. Never mind that sometimes Pete climbs back into their bed once Patrick leaves and doesn’t get up again until he hears the door open. Never mind that Patrick hasn’t even seen fit to give Pete back his wedding collar so he could at least leave the house a claimed man.

Patrick receives his declarations of happiness with a growing line between his brows, but he doesn’t do anything about it. He hasn’t pushed Pete to his knees or brought his hand against him even once. Pete bows himself to the floor sometimes when he’s alone, trying to get something from the bruises growing on his knees, but it’s not the same to try to command himself.

They have sex as often as Patrick likes, but slowly overtime that too dwindles. Pete finds himself growing quiet when Patrick pushes into him, drifting, Patrick’s hands always too loose to ground him. He tilts his head and bares his neck more out of habit than real hope, but Patrick never leaves so much as a single bruise there or anywhere else.

Their marriage is failing. Pete knows he’s not the only one to sense it. Even Gabe takes to glancing between them with furrowed brows on the rare nights when Patrick makes it home early enough to entertain guests. Or guest, rather. Apart from his husband and the staff, Gabe is the only other person in the city Patrick’s introduced him to.

“You should bring him to the Yule concert,” Gabe says on such a rare night. The three of them are gathered in the study with cards spread between them, Gabe and Patrick drink glasses of rum while Pete sits with his head bowed over hand. 

“Maybe,” Patrick says, but his tone belies his enthusiasm. Still, he turns his head to Pete and asks, “Would you like that?”

Pete lifts his shoulders and shrugs. “If you’d like,” he answers, even as the thought of going anywhere outside in public, without either a collar or a bite makes his hand shake. He hasn’t even it make it down to the market yet.

“You should bring him,” Gabe repeats. The sternness of the alpha’s tone brings Pete’s eyes up from the table. Gabe stares at Patrick with a gaze that clearly frustrated. “You didn’t win someone like Pete to just have him sit around at home all day. Surely you can make better use of him than that.”

Patrick’s ears redden. Unlike his cheeks, by now Pete knows this only happens when he’s truly embarrassed. He dully wonders if Pete is as mortified by their failing match as Pete is.

“Pete can leave the house whenever he wants. I’ve invited him to the university several times already,” Patrick snaps. He adds in a mutter, “He’s never wanted to come.”

Pete drops his head at the sour note in his husband’s voice. A familiar sensation of guilt crawls under his skin, festering with the rest of his failures. He can’t even remember a time Patrick told him to come to work. The closest thing to an invitation he can recall was Patrick mentioning how Pete might enjoy the library if he were to visit.

“Sorry,” Pete says and bows his head even more. The more Pete misreads his husband the more he realizes what a bad husband he’s turned out to be. He lies his cards down on the table to hide his hands in his lap. “I’ll come if you’d like me to.”

Patrick sighs again, louder this time. “No. That’s not the point, Pete. You don’t need to leave the house if you don’t want to. I’m not going to force you.”

Pete’s near trembling. “Thank you,” he manages, but the words seem insufficient, especially in front of a guest that can clearly see how Pete is failing. “I’m very grateful to you, husband. If you’d prefer that I go I can—“

Patrick’s chair screeches on the floorboards as he pushes up. “Would you like another drink, Gabe?”

 _Fuck_. Pete twists his hands in his lap and prays that his bangs cover his face as Patrick stomps across the room to the bar. Pete’s upset him. He’s not even sure why. As Patrick bangs around at the bar loudly, Pete knows he should get up and help, but he can’t even manage that. He sits there, frozen and humiliated.

Gabe’s gaze burns hot on the back of Pete’s neck and knows he’s only shamed himself further. The neckline of his jacket hides nothing of his bare neck. His old wardrobe had been designed to show of the family jewels.

“Sorry, sir,” Pete whispers, hoping Gabe won’t stop visiting on account of this embarrassing scene. As crude as he is, Pete can’t afford to cost Patrick his only friend.

“That’s, uh, that’s alright, Pete. You haven’t done anything wrong.” There’s a scrape as Gabe stands up too. “Hey, Patrick. Can I speak with you a moment?”

“What?”

“Outside please. And perhaps you could tell Pete to kneel while we’re gone.”

Pete sucks in a shuddering breath and jerks up. Gabe’s not even looking at him, staring hard at Patrick across the room. Patrick’s own face is shocked, even affronted. His surprise folds into scowl before Pete’s eyes.

“I told you to stop talking about him like that,” Patrick growls and the hairs one the back of Pete’s neck stand up.

Gabe crosses his arms and scowls back. “Yeah, well, I know a wound up omega when I see it. You’re certainly not doing anything about it.”

“Pete’s fine,” Patrick hisses back and Pete flinches. Patrick’s face twists into something bitter. “He’s always fine. Just ask him.”

“Except that he’s clearly not fine,” Gabe returns, rolling his eyes with force. “Have you even asked him?”

The bar rattles when Patrick slams the bottle of rum back down on it, spinning and stalking back over to the table. “Of course I’ve _asked_ him. I ask him every damn day. I don’t need any of your alpha bullshit to know how to handle my own husband.”

“I wouldn’t need to act like an alpha right now if you were doing your job,” Gabe returns, standing his ground. “Just look at him, Patrick. He hasn’t left the house. He barely says two words. He’s obviously terrified. For Christ’s sake, he’s not even wearing your mark.”

Humiliation so deep it swallows him floods through Pete. He digs his nails into his hands and runs tense all over. Above his head, both Gabe and Patrick are breathing heavily.

“His collar is upstairs,” Patrick responds stiffly. Upstairs, sitting on Patrick’s drawer where he’d never once hooked it around Pete’s neck again. Pete wouldn’t dare touch it.

“And his bite? His neck is bare, Patrick.”

Patrick’s response is stiff. “We hadn’t agree to that. I’m not going to just give it to him.”

Pete entire world grows dim. He swallows down the sob in his throat as his worst fears are spoken. His husband doesn’t have any intention on truly claiming him. He isn’t unaware, as he’d been with purchasing the collar. He’s chosen to deny Pete this.

Gabe gapes at him. “You married him.”

“Yes,” snaps Patrick. “So it’s none of _your_ business what I do with my own husband. You don’t know better just because you’re an alpha.”

“Just _look_ at him, Patrick! What part of what you’re doing seems to be working for him?”

There’s a moment of heavy silence above Pete’s head. His husband stare, when it drops to him, hits like a weight. Pete has his hands tucked lap and is trying to sit pretty—unaffected—but every inch of him feels hunched and warped and ugly. The only good thing he’s managed to do is not cry, but he knows there’s nothing soft or pleasant for his husband to look at on his face.

“Pete?”

Patrick’s voice has dropped from outrage to a familiar soft hesitation. Pete bites his tongue and nods his head to say he’s heard. He knows nothing good will come out of him if he opens his mouth now.

“Tell him to kneel,” Gabe says suddenly, voice low.

“I’m not going to—“

“For fuck’s sake, Patrick, just tell him!”

The alpha’s command of his husband drops Pete’s chin to his collarbone. Every muscle in his body is pulled taut. For far too long, no one speaks.

Then, “Do you want to kneel, Pete? Is that— Is that something that you want?”

Pete’s head swims. Apart of him leaps at the offer, but he recognizes the reluctance in Patrick’s voice. He can’t shame him again. He can’t.

“What the fuck is he supposed to do with that?” Gabe demands, speaking the frustrations that Pete has been holding onto for month. “You need to _tell_ him, Patrick. Does he look like he’s in a state to be making grand decisions?”

“Jesus Christ, Gabe. I’m not going to just order him around. He’s a person, not a dog.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” snaps back Gabe. “He’s an omega. Pete. Down.”

Pete slides from his chair to the floor with a crack. He goes down. All the way down, until his forehead meets the hardwood and his hands lay flat above his head. In the little cove of his arms, his own breathing sounds thick and frightened. Above him, there is silence.

“Oh,” says Patrick in a strangled voice. “Fuck.”

“Outside,” commands Gabe. “We need to talk. Now.”

Pete isn’t sure how long he lies waiting on the floor. His knees and spine ache, out of practice, but he maintains the position even as the flood of adrenaline leaves him and it dawns on him that he followed another’s directions over that of his husband’s. He’s knelt for another _alpha_.

He can’t quite help the tears that leak out when he recognizes this. He’s ruined himself. Again.

When Patrick comes back in he enters alone. Pete hears him pause as he opens the door, no doubt taking in the messy sight of him, before his footsteps shuffle quietly over. The floorboards creak as Patrick stands a few inches from Pete’s head, but Pete doesn’t shift. If Patrick wants to beat him, to leave him on the floor for hours more, Pete can take it. He longs to take it. He only hopes he won’t be sent back to his family in further disgrace.

Eventually, Patrick clears his throat. “Uh, Pete. It’s okay if you get up now. Gabe has gone.”

Pete cringes at the alpha’s name but dutifully pulls his chest from the floor. He can’t quite make itupfrom his knees though. His feet feel nailed to the spot.

“Okay. Okay, that’s…that’s good, Pete. I’m going to come closer. You’re not in trouble, okay?”

Sure enough, Patrick’s feet step into Pete’s vision. Pete’s so far flying on the word good and how much he doesn’t deserve it, he doesn’t notice Patrick’s hand until he’s flinching as it lands in his hair. Almost immediately, the hand retreats. Pete actually watches as it clenches at Patrick’s side before slowly reaching for him again. For once, Patrick’s grips his hair in a firm grasp and holds.

“It’s just me,” Patrick whispers, softly. “I don’t— I don’t entirely know what I’m doing here, okay? Gabe said…”

He chokes off as Pete presses his face to Patrick’s groin. Pete doesn’t want to suck Patrick off right now. His body aches and trembles and he’s not even sure he can part his teeth without accidentally biting, but he knows what’s expected in his position. Patrick’s grip again flutters loose in Pete’s hair as Pete mouths at his cock through the fabric.

When he reaches for Patrick’s pants though, firm hands suddenly grasp his.

“No. No, Pete. I don’t want that.”

Pete can’t give up just yet. He can’t lose the one thing he provides for his husband. “I’m s-sorry,” Pete manages and sure enough his teeth are chattering. “I can— Whatever you want, husband. I can—“

“Get up. Please, Pete. Get up off the floor.”

Pete stands hastily. He scans the room desperately, trying to predict what Patrick is after. He’s fucked him tipped over the bed before. Maybe he wants Pete over one of the chairs that way? Or the table. Pete risks a glance at Patrick’s face trying to read his thoughts. As ever, he has no idea what his husband wants.

Patrick takes in a long breath and doesn’t look at him either. Then, with a squaring of his shoulders, he takes Pete by the hand and leads him out of the study.

The landing outside is silent. Gabe must truly have left. Pete hopes he never sees the alpha again as Patrick leads him up the stairwell towards their bedroom. For a moment, Pete’s hopeful. His husband is taking him to bed. He still wants him. Pete is left shivering on the tile floor when he’s pulled into the bathroom instead.

“I’m going to draw a bath,” Patrick says, letting go of Pete’s hands.

Pete quickly hides them behind his back. They haven’t had sex in the bath yet. Perhaps Patrick is aiming for some novelty to spark his attraction to Pete.

“I can do that,” Pete says. “Please.”

Patrick shakes his head. “You’re shivering. Wait here.”

Pete waits. The cook, he knows, keeps water over coals in the kitchen over night. Patrick must know this too because he comes back lugging the heavy pot with steam in his face. He sets it down on the floor with a cloth beneath it to keep it from scorching the tile, but doesn’t pull out the bathing tub tucked away in the corner.

“I’m sorry,” Patrick says. “There’s not enough for a full bath. Let me just…”

He steps closer to Pete and strips the jacket from Pete’s shoulders, then tugs his undershirt from where it’s been tucked into his pants. He hangs both on a bar nearby, then reaches for a washcloth and hesitates.

“Um. Kneel please, Pete.”

Pete’s eyes widen. His looks up, not quite believe it, only to find Patrick staring at him, red in the face and brow furrowed. Pete’s not sure whether to call it a second chance or a miracle. He folds himself to the ground with more grace that he managed the first time, remembering to straighten his spine and clasp his hands behind his back to present his best angles.

It’s wasted when Patrick meets him on the tile floor. He dips the washcloth in the warm water and wrings it out, before sliding it down Pete’s shoulder. Pete shivers as water drips down his arm. He’s not cold, just in shock. He can’t help but track Patrick’s hands as they move the warm water down over Pete’s arms and chest, the roughness of the washcloth soothing something in Pete’s limbs.

“I can do that,” Pete whispers as the ministrations draw on. “Do you want me to do that?”

“No,” says Patrick and his hands pause at Pete flinches. “I just want you to stay there. That’s all. Can you do that for me?”

Pete hangs his head feeling worse than useless. “Yes.”

Patrick’s hands continue on.

For a while, nothing but the drip and lapping of the water fill the bathroom. Patrick works his way all down Pete’s torso, and the sensation is as lulling as it is confusing. It reminds Pete of being back home with his family, when he was a boy and his mother would scrub him clean after a foray into the gardens.

Then Patrick brings the washcloth up to the top of Pete’s spine and Pete can’t help the whine that escapes him. He sucks it in, nostril’s flaring, as Patrick’s hand freezes.

It seems to last forever before Pete feels the briefest squeeze around the back of his neck.

Pete keens. Drops his head and pushes up into Patrick’s grip. His mouth is running before he even realizes it’s open. “Please, Patrick. Please please please. I’ll be good. I swear. I can be good. I can be perfect.”

“Shh. Shh, it’s okay.” The hand tightens around Pete’s neck, holding his head down, bowed.“I’ve got you. I’m so sorry, Pete. I’ve got you. Hush.”

Pete doesn’t remember the journey from the bathroom floor to the bed. One moment there are hard tiles underneath him and the next Patrick is pulling heavy blankets up to his chin.

Patrick’s body is warm as he slides in beside him, wrapping Pete in an embrace just tight enough for Pete to breathe out a little sigh of relief.

He feels Patrick’s breath on his hair, whispering something, as Pete closes his eyes and for once lets sleep come.

When Pete wakes up in the morning it’s to frost thick on the windows and a cold bed. Pete never wakes up alone. Patrick always wakes up after him. He spasms as he flips around, but the other side of the bed is empty.

Then, there’s a shuffling of feet as Patrick comes back in through the door.

Pete sits up in bed. His head is emptier than it’s been in a long time. He actually feels like he could fold back down and go to sleep for another twelve hours if it wasn’t for the way Patrick was looking at him.

“I’ve got your collar here,” Patrick says cautiously, setting down the tray of breakfast foods he seems to have brought back from the kitchen. He crosses the room and picks up the simple black collar from his dresser. Pete’s eyes track it as though it were crafted of diamonds. “Gabe mentioned you’d probably want it.”

Pete _does_. He yearns for the weight of his belonging around his neck. He hasn’t worn anything so much as a necklace since his wedding night. It was traditional for an omega leave that sort jewelry at home.

But Pete catches sight of the uncertain glint in Patrick eyes and doesn’t reach for it the way he wants to. “I’m sorry,” he says. “You don’t have to give it to me. I know I’ve been difficult.”

“And I’ve been oblivious, apparently,” Patrick returns, stepping closer. “Do you want it now?”

Pete’s eyes flicker from the collar in Patrick’s hands, to his face. “I haven’t earned it.”

Patrick’s mouth thins. He takes the final steps closer to the bed and sits on it. “You’re my husband. You don’t have to earn anything.”

He reaches for Pete’s neck and Pete freezes. Patrick’s hands are warm when they buckle the collar around Pete’s neck. His callouses are familiar, gentle.

The weight of the collar settles something deep inside Pete’s chest. He reaches up and touches it, frowning slightly when it rests slightly loose against his collar bones.

“What is it?”

Pete looks up to find Patrick tracking him intensely. Pete snatches his hands away from the collar and fixes his expression, but Patrick has already seen. “Pete. What is it? You have to tell me or I won’t know.”

“It’s nothing,” Pete denies. Patrick’s stare is relentless though, and he folds quickly. “It’s just— Could you tighten it please?”

“It’s too loose?”

Immediately Pete shakes his head. “No. No, sorry. It’s perfect. Thank you.”

Patrick’s gaze hardens. “Right. It’s too loose. Hold on.”

His fingers return to Patrick’s neck and the buckle loosens. Patrick pulls the collar tighter until _finally_ it sits snug around Pete’s neck, a constant grounding pressure.

“There?” Patrick questions, brows drawn. “That seems tight.”

“No, please,” Pete begs. “It’s perfect.”

“I— Okay.” Patrick shifts back and drops his hands. He seems uncertain again sitting there, before popping to his feet with a burst. “Oh right. I brought breakfast. I thought maybe we could talk and eat.”

Pete’s heart squeezes in his chest. His nod is small as he tucks his feet up to his chest and Patrick brings the tray over. Patrick has pulled on a shirt, but Pete is still in undressed. He glances at the door.

“I’ve dismissed the staff for today,” Patrick says, catching the look. “I thought we might want some privacy. I’ve taken the day off from work too.”

Pete squirms. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I really did though,” Patrick dismisses. “We need to talk. Gabe will be by later to check in, but I thought we could start just the two of us.”

The memory of falling at Gabe’s command sends shivers down Pete’s spine. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to listen to him.”

Patrick just shakes his head and settles more comfortably on the bed. “I don’t think either of us have been listening to each other very well. Eat something please, then we’ll talk.”

That’s a clear enough direction at least. Pete doesn’t realize how little he been eating recently until he moans around a slice of bread. He blushes when he catches Pete staring at him, and they both look away. Between the two of them, Pete eats the lion share, realizing this and feeling guilty only once Patrick goes to clear the tray.

On Patrick’s suggestion, Pete dresses and gets out of bed, then follows his husband to the study where all the cards and drinks from last night have been cleared away. They sit down on two opposing chairs across from a small table. Patrick levels a soothing smile at him and aims right for the heart of it.

“I know you’re not happy here, Pete.”

Pete hunches down immediately. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not,” returns Patrick, expression firm. “Gabe was right. I’ve seen it myself how you’re wasting away in here.“ His ears pink slightly. “He said somethings last night that I probably should have known before.”

“I’m fine,” Pete repeats, but even to his own ears it’s unconvincing.

Patrick sighs but doesn’t look upset, only lost. His gaze travels around the space before dropping to the bottle of rum from last night. Without a word he gets up and pours, returning to the table with two glasses.

Pete blinks when one is set in front of him. Patrick run a hand through his hair and turns his eyes to the ceiling. “Christ, I don’t even know if you drink.”

It’s the frustration on Patrick’s face that has Pete pull the drink closer. “I do,” he admits. “Champagne. Wine sometimes when my father allowed it.”

Patrick perks up at this small piece of information. He straightens in his chair, peering at Pete curiously. “Is that something common? For an alpha to control what liquors their omega drinks?”

Pete worries his nails against the glass of his drink and drops his eyes. “Sometimes.” He almost leaves it at that, when he catches the way Patrick’s curious expression falls. He hurriedly goes on, “Not often. I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I used to drink to grow tired. My father worried I depended on it too much. He forbid it.”

Patrick’s eyebrows rise. His eyes are curious and kind, even as Pete feels itchy having just admitted to that fault. But Patrick doesn’t mention the drinking or probe in to the defect. He just picks up his own glasses and tastes it, before setting it down again and pulling Pete’s glass away from him. Pete’s shoulder relax when the choice is taken from him.

“I thought I’d heard you awake at night,” Patrick muses. “You never got up though.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Pete admits. “I’ve never shared a bed before.”

Patrick frowns thoughtfully. “What about at home? What did you do then when you couldn’t sleep?”

Pete leans back in his chair and remembers. His father had cut him off from alcohol and opioids when he was fifteen, after Pete had nearly broken his neck falling down the stairs. He’d roamed the halls restless and itchy for weeks after, but eventually the cravings faded. His insomnia didn’t.

“I read,” Pete reflects, thinking of what came after, “and wrote. For a while, I had a manservant that would stay up and keep my company.”

“You write?” Patrick asks, perking up.

“You knew that,” Pete says, thinking of the many long stories his mother had entertained Patrick with back during the summer. She’d given him a laundry list of his qualities.

“You haven’t touched the piano since you’ve lived here,” Patrick says, nodding his head to the instrument standing on the other side of the room. “I know parents exaggerate their children’s qualities. I thought that was one of them.”

Pete glances over at the piano and flushes. Patrick plays it sometimes, late at night when he comes home, but has never invited Pete down to listen. It hasn’t stopped Pete from standing outside the door a few times anyway when he was sure none of the staff would catch him.

“I can play,” he says, then bites his lips and drops his chin. “Not well. Not as good as I can write.”

“But you like writing?” Patrick presses. “That’s something that you enjoy?”

“Yes,” Pete admits. He hesitates again, but Patrick seems so genuine in his interest. More interested than anything he’s shown towards Pete since their earliest days. “I write poetry mostly. I’ve tried writing stories, but the endings always get lost. Poems are short enough to really hear the language.”

“I’m terrible with words,” Patrick says in turn, smiling. “I guess you’ve seen that though. I’d like to hear some of your poetry sometime.”

“Oh.” Pete drops his gaze to the table, unable to take the open, eager way Patrick is looking at him. “Okay.”

“You don’t have to,” Patrick is quick to assure him. “Only if you want to.” Something in Pete’s shoulders tightens again at the uncertainty. After a moment, Patrick sighs. “I’ve said something again.”

“It’s fine,” Pete assures him quickly, this time with more conviction.

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I shouldn’t listen to those words anymore.” Patrick sighs again. “Was it too personal a request? All these months together and this is the first time I feel as though I’m meeting you.”

Pete grinds his teeth and ducks his head further. He doesn’t know how to explain. A bitter voice inside of him whines that he shouldn’t _have_ to explain. Pete’s match was always supposed to just _know._ An alpha would.

Then it’s Pete turn to sigh. That’s not fair. It isn’t Patrick’s fault he was born a beta. It isn’t even his fault that they’re married. If Pete hadn’t made the mistake of leaving the party, he’d have married one of those simpering, confident alphas who had eyed him on the dance floor. Patrick was the one that had picked up the pieces of Pete’s ruined reputation.

“You don’t have to ask,” Pete finally says quietly. Across the table, Patrick sits up.

“What?”

“It’s the— Your friend said it last night. You don’t have to ask.”

Patrick stares at him brow furrowed. “Your opinion is important to me. How am I supposed to know what you want if I don’t ask.”

Pete shakes his head, frustrated. “How am I supposed to know what you want if you don’t tell me?”

“You’ve done nothing wrong,” Patrick says, aghast. “Your my husband, not my pet.”

“And your supposed to be my alpha! Not this— this—” Pete’s words choke off as he realizes he’s yelling. Patrick sits across from him with wide eyes and an open mouth.

Pete is trembling again. He snatches his hands from where they’ve been thrown out in the air and tucks them back into his lap. “I’m sorry,” he manages to force pass the tangle in his throat. “I only meant that I don’t— It’s difficult to know what you want when you won’t tell me.”

“And that’s… important to you?” Patrick asks haltingly.

The word slips out sharp before Pete can catch it. “Yes!”

“Oh.” Patrick looks lost again, blinking rapidly at Pete.

“How could you think otherwise?” Pete demands, too upset to hold back his tongue. “I’ve done everything you asked me too.”

“I thought you were angry with me.”

Pete rapidly pales. “What?”

“Yes. That,” exclaims Patrick, leaning forward. “You’re always looking at me just like that. Like I’ve kicked you or something. I know I’m not who you were intending to marry. Or even _what_ you were intending.” He shrugs, ears pink. “I’m sorry. I just assumed you didn’t like me much.”

“I—“ Pete opens his mouth to denies this, then closes it again. “I don’t _dislike_ you,” he manages. “You saved my family’s reputation.”

“I ruined your future,” Patrick returns bluntly. “You’re an omega heir of a lord living with a university professor who’s not even the right dynamic. I saw the way you responded to Gabe.”

Pete’s guilt burns. “I’m sorry.”

“So am I,” responds Patrick not missing a beat. “Like I said, neither of us has been listening very well.”

Some of the tension eases as Patrick sits back in his chair. He folds his hands on the table palms up and continues, “So, you don’t like being asked to do things. You’d rather be told. Why?”

Pete struggles to explain. “I want to do things right. I can’t do them right if don’t know what you want.”

“You want to be good,” Patrick nods with a dawning look of realization. “Perfect.”

The word sears through Pete. He looks up and he knows his gaze is hungry. “Yes.”

Patrick swallows. He flips his hands over on the table and runs them out flat, before drawing them into his lap. His lips are thin. “And what if I tell you to do something you don’t want to do? If I told you to crawl around like a dog or cut off your hair. What happens then?”

Pete just stares at him. His knees throb. Patrick drops his eyes to the floor.

“Oh.”

“There are limits,” Pete says at the dread mounting on Patrick’s face.

Patrick’s gaze comes up, hopeful. “Okay. Like what?”

“I won’t shame my family,” Pete says immediately, “And I—I’d rather not cut my hair.”

Patrick’s staring at him with slightly parted lips. He licks them, and shakes his head. “You didn’t tell me this.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Ah.” Patrick drops his eyes and looks away. Pete wants to scream, but settles for digging his nails into his hand. It had finally felt like they were getting somewhere, only for Patrick to loose confidence…again.

Just as Pete is thinking this however, Patrick’s gaze returns. He’s taken a deep breath, and something in his shoulders is squared as he looks back at Pete.

“Okay,” he says again, firmer. “I’m listening. What limits?”

It’s under the expectancy of Patrick’s gaze that Pete shivers. The words pour out of him like poorly spilled tea, hot and rushed. “I don’t like being humiliated. If you’re going to punish me, I’d rather it be in private. And I don’t like being called names. I— my mind doesn’t do well separating pretending words from what’s real. I don’t want to be lied to.”

“Privacy and kindness,” Patrick says. His leans in closer over the table, eyes sharp. “You want to be treated well. That’s…I’m glad to hear that. What else?”

“For punishment…” Pete heaves in a deep breath and Patrick grows still across the table. “I don’t like gags. I can be quiet on my own if you need me to. I promise. And you have to tell me what I’ve done wrong. Please don’t make me guess it.”

Patrick swallows heavily at the word punishment, complexion a bit grey. “I’m not sure I can do punishment, Pete,” he says slowly. “Gabe said…I know that its something you’ve been taught to need, but it’s not something I ever learned to do. I don’t think I can hurt you.”

Despite his words, Patrick hasn’t left the table in disgust or refusal. Pete licks his lips and tries his best to read between the lines. “My father used to have me kneel in a corner,” Pete says slowly, “Sometimes he’d tie my there so I could escape.”

“And you…want that?” Patrick ventures uncertainly. “That would be enough?”

Want is a complicated word. Pete doesn’t _enjoy_ being forced to kneel and think about his mistakes for hours on end, but it helps. His head always clears after it. “I don’t know how to be without it,” Pete says simply.

“I could just tell you. You’re a rational adult. We could talk about it.”

Pete lifts his shoulders and shrugs. He doesn’t think so, but he won’t say it. Patrick sighs. “Okay. I’ll…think about it. But that’s all things you don’t want. What about things you do?”

Pete frowns at him. “Like…objects?” he asks.

“Well no. I was thinking more about things that you would enjoy we do together, but sure. Why not? What do you need Pete?”

The answer is immediate.

“My collar,” he says, hand already going to his throat.

Patrick winces slightly, but inclines his head. “You’ve already got that. What else?”

Pete knows the answer even as he’s trying to bite it off. He should demure and say no, that everything Patrick has provided for him so far has been fine.

“I’m still asking, aren’t I?” Patrick mutters, more to himself. He straightens up in his chair. When he speaks next his voice is low and firm, just perfect. “Pete, tell me.”

“A cushion,” Pete blurts out. “Something soft to kneel on would be nice. You could put me there sometimes…if you like.”

“Okay,” Patrick breathes. He doesn’t look away. Slowly, a small smile blooms across his face. “Okay. We can start there.”

_SPRING_

“He hangs off your every word,” teases Patrick as the bell tolls and choir students trickle out of class laughing. His hand comes up to squeeze the back of Pete’s neck as they both watch one shaggy haired omega in particular flounce away, tucked close to the side of another student.

“He’s ambitious,” Pete replies, turning away from the scene and leaning into his husband’s grip. It tightens reflexively around his neck, not a loose finger among them, as Pete ducks in for a kiss. “I’m glad that you were able to talk Brendon’s parents into waiting to debut him for a few years. He’s grown so much.”

“I don’t know if he’ll make it to the social season,” Patrick admits. “Ryan’s got his eye on him.”

“And I’ve got my eyes on _him_. He’s not the first alpha to think he can sidestep the courting process.”

“I’m sure not sure Brendon will thank you for helping,” Patrick grins. “He seems rather happy with it.”

Pete huffs but lets Patrick tug him by a hand on his wrist from the classroom. They’d negotiated long and hard over a leash when Pete had gathered up the courage to suggest one, but Patrick hadn’t been able to keep his blanch hidden. They did end up compromising, save the glittering silver chain Patrick had presented to him on the New Year for inside their home and agreeing to guide Pete around by his wrist in public. Pete’s grown to like the pressure of Patrick’s hand wrapped around him, even if they occasional step on each other’s heels.

They walk together out of the music hall and down across the university’s square. It’s near exam time and students are escaping the gloom of the library in little pods along the grass. It’s funny for Pete to watch Patrick duck his head and turn red whenever a student calls to them, even funnier when Pete raises his head and waves back in encouragement. His husband is a shy man, Pete’s come to realize, but he never loosens the confident clasp on his hand on Pete’s wrist.

“I got a letter from my sister this morning,” Pete informs him as they cut across the square. “Father’s decided to take my advice and delay her debut another year. They want to know if we’ll visit this summer.”

Patrick glances over at him as they step off of the campus and into the streets proper, where the buildings cram more closely together in a way that Pete has come to find fascinating for it’s multitude. He waves as Mr. Hurley, the new gentleman next door who has recently joined their weekly game night with Gabe and occasionally the visiting young Lord Trohman, before turning back to read his husbands face.

He’s not surprised to see the worry there. “Are you— I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” he admits, amending his statement out of the question Pete knows was brewing there. Pete gives him another kiss for his trouble, this time to the back of his neck just under his hair.

“Maybe in a year,” Pete agrees with a hum. He’s thought about this extensively. As much as he misses his family, Patrick was correct all those months ago when he promised the city was a different place. “I feel like I’m just getting to know the city.”

“We could invite your siblings. Your brother might enjoy a summer course on botany.”

“Ah,” grins Pete. “You forget. We lords don’t work. Our titles are our only duties.”

Patrick snorts, slipping down from Pete’s wrist to take the ink stained fingers on the end. “I’ll just tell that to your future publisher, yeah?”

They walk up the steps to their home as the sun is setting, turning the windows to panes of solid gold. They’re met with laughter as they come in the door. It’s Gabe entertaining the cook again. Patrick would say bothering, but Pete can spy the way she grins. 

Pete stops into the kitchen to say hello for a minute, while Patrick continues on up the stairs. When Pete follows a few minutes later, he finds that Patrick has already pulled the kneeling cushion out beside the piano in the study. He settles on the floor while Patrick hums and lifts his hands from the keys long enough to scribble something on his composition. Still working, just at home. Another compromise. They’ll have dinner together within the hour.

“Do you want your notebook?” Patrick asks, dropping his hand to tug on Pete’s collar as Pete shifts on his cushion, restless.

“No,” Pete answers. He glances at the closed study door before looking up again, shifting again on his knees.

“Do you want something else?” Patrick asks, catching Pete’s playful mood.

Pete makes it easy on him and licks his lips, dropping his eyes to Patrick’s spread legs in blatant request. “Maybe,” he sings.

Patrick laughs at him and flicks the back of his head before obliging by scooting the piano bench back and spreading his legs. Pete grins crawls to where he’s wanted, pulling his cushion over to save his knees.

They both sigh as Pete takes Patrick in his mouth. Patrick pulls him in by his collar until Pete’s taken him nearly all the way in, then keeps his fingers firm in Pete’s hair as Pete sets the pace and begins to bob.

The rhythm of it is easy find. Pete closes his eyes to focus on the push and pull of Patrick’s hand in his hair and lets himself fall into it.

When he comes Patrick holds Pete down until his cock has grown half soft in Pete’s mouth. Pete kisses the tip of it wetly as he’s finally pulled off, Patrick’s hands smoothing down through his hair.

He looks up to find Patrick’s stare is hungry.

“If you want something,” Patrick says lowly, “lock the door.”

Pete’s on his feet and has the study lock turned in a heartbeat. He’s not surprised when Patrick catches him as he turns around, pushing him against the door and grinding his thigh into Pete’s erection. He pins a hand over Pete’s mouth to muffle his groan. Neither of them want an audience for this.

“What do you want, Pete?”

Pete throws his head and thrashes as Patrick’s mouth descends on his neck, biting at his collar wicked nips of his teeth.

“Whatever. Whatever you want,” Pete gasps.

Patrick tisks and nips at his Adam’s apple. The admonishment is clear. “You already gave me what I want. Hand or mouth, Pete. Choose.”

Pete’s not having Patrick’s mouth leave his neck any time soon. He shakes his head, grinding his cock against Patrick’s leg and licking at the fingers over his mouth. Patrick muffles a laugh against his skin.

“Yeah, alright. Hand it is.”

When Patrick clasps his spit wet hand over Pete’s cock it is good, but when he finally unbuckles the collar from Pete’s throat and sinks his teeth into the marks already littered there the only word for it is perfect.

Pete closes his eyes and lets himself float, knowing that when Patrick finally pulls his teeth away, the wet imprint of his bite will glitters like the best of diamonds.


End file.
